The Mother Superior Affair
by Mary Catherine Marshall
Summary: The first of the Mother Superior Tales. First posted on File 40.


_**The Mother Superior Affair **_

**_by Mary Catherine Marshall_**

"Mr. Solo."

His name was not spoken as a question.

Napoleon leaned on Kelley's bar and shifted his weight motioning to the stool next to him. He did not look up from his drink.

"Isn't it interesting, the things that bring people together?" she continued, still out of his line of sight.

"That's the most unusual pick-up line I've ever heard," Napoleon replied, beginning to feel pissed-off.

"I'll have a vodka martini, your best stuff, shaken please, no garnish," she ordered.

"As I was saying, I find it extremely interesting that the two of us -- from such disparate lines of work -- being thrown together," she continued. "Wouldn't you say, Mr. Solo?"

Napoleon finally glanced up to the mirror above the bar. Next to him was an attractive woman -- not beautiful -- about his age. He guessed that she was somewhere in her late 20's, early 30's. Her hair, thick and cut short, was salt and pepper -- more salt than pepper, he noted.

"I seem to be at a disadvantage," he said.

She took a sip of her martini, smiled and thanked the bartender. "Emerson Myer Cates," she said. "Reverend Emerson Myer Cates."

"Reverend?" Napoleon asked, now taking a good deal of interest in this woman with the smoky voice.

"Yes, Mr. Solo, but don't let that fool you," she said, smiling at him. "Do you have a light?" she asked, producing a cigarette.

"Of course," Napoleon answered, offering the flame of an expensive sliver lighter.

She held his hand in hers as he lit her cigarette. "Mr. Waverly, Alexander, asked me to meet with you."

"He must think I'm pretty far down the crapper if he's calling in the God Squad," Napoleon said, sitting up straight, "I've already put in my couch time and I'm not interested in spending any more talking to somebody that isn't one of us."

She smiled again, the corners of her eyes crinkling. _She is attractive in a different sort of way,_ he thought, impressed with the deep blue of her eyes.

"Mr. Solo, I have been fully briefed on your situation. While I have no doubt that the UNCLE professionals have put you through your paces, Mr. Waverly believes there is still work to be done. Frankly, he doesn't believe that you've been cooperating," she said, taking a sip of her martini.

"Look, I'm not interested," Napoleon said, standing to leave. "Go shepherd some other lost lamb."

"Mr. Solo, I am to inform you that you have no choice. You will cooperate with me or you will not be returned to field service." She turned to face him, folded her well-manicured hands, and continued, "Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

"Pardon me, Reverend Cates, but who the fuck do you think you are?" Napoleon asked, he could feel his hands tensing into fists.

"Call with Alexander," she said, putting out her cigarette. "He's expecting your call."

Napoleon offered a condescending smile, "We UNCLE agents don't call. We use communicators. Open channel D."

"Waverly. Mr. Solo. I trust you've met Emie," the gravely voice of his boss said.

"Yes, sir, but ..."

"She's told you about your next assignment?" Not waiting for confirmation, Mr. Waverly continued, "You will work with Emie, complete whatever assignments she provides you and, upon her recommendation, you will be returned to field service. Do you understand?"

"Mr. Waverly...,"

"Waverly out."

They sat quietly at the bar for a few minutes while Napoleon thought about his options. He narrowed them to two: work with this woman or resign.

He took a side ways glance at 'Emie' as the Boss called her. Emerson ordered another martini and this time Napoleon noticed a small scar, about an inch in length, running along the temple near her left eye.

The real Napoleon kicked in. _She has beautiful eyes, deep blue, the color of the sea at sunset and dark thick lashes. Good legs. Nice body. She really is quite attractive. _

Emie interrupted his assessment, "Mr. Solo, don't think that I'm trying to bully you into this assignment. I wouldn't be here if Alexander hadn't asked. He's very concerned about you." She lit another cigarette. "We'll talk for a little while tonight and then we'll begin our assignment tomorrow."

"Reverend Cates," Napoleon answered, "With respect, I don't think you're capable of bullying me into anything. Seems though, that I have no choice. I either work with you or I resign. I'm not prepared to do that just yet, although you might push me to it." He returned his tumbler to the bar top with a little more force than intended.

"Call me Emerson -- or if we get to tolerate each other, Emie. Let's get a table and have something to eat. We can begin acquainting ourselves," she said, moving off the bar stool and picking up her martini.

* * *

The doorman, Marvin, opened the cab door and greeted Napoleon with a strong hand and a big smile. "Lovely night, Mr. Solo. You're home early from your date -- and alone," Marvin offered with a big smile and a bigger wink.

"Sorry, to disappoint, Marvin, not that kind of date," Napoleon said. "It's been a very long day." He headed toward the elevators and stopped, "Oh, Marvin, please, no calls tonight."

Napoleon punched the button for the 50th floor and rested against the back wall of the oak-paneled elevator. _I'm not in the mood to return to St. Louis, _he thought. _I'm not in the mood for much of anything. _He almost regretted that he didn't have one of those, what was it Emie called them, "bimbo's" along for the ride. It might just distract him from what was coming.

At his door he fumbled with his keys and noticed that his hands were shaking. He closed the door hearing the locks engage. He poured a very generous scotch.

Standing at the floor to ceiling windows he looked out over New York and began to think about what Emie would be asking of him. _She's going to pick me to pieces, _he thought._ No, she's going to try to pick me to pieces. Fat chance, _he laughed, _you don't know who you're dealing with._ The glass in his hand shattered.

He jumped when the glass shattered and then realized that he'd cut his hand. He made for the bath dripping bright red blood down the cream-colored carpet. _That'll piss off the housekeeper_, he heading to his bedroom

Napoleon dropped the blood-soaked towel on the floor. He stripped naked, tossing his now bloodied white shirt next to the towel and dropping his black suit where he stood.

He looked at his hand. The cut wasn't that bad. He pulled several dark blue towels out of the linen closet and climbed into the shower. The steam poured out the glass door like fog in San Francisco.

He stood in the shower letting the hot water cover every inch of his body. It felt like hot sleet pounding on his skin. Blood from the cut mixed with the water and drained quickly away.

_Wish the rest of this shit would drain away, too, _he thought as he soaped his body. He began to notice his scars, the price of doing his work. The dimple in his left shoulder from Kandahar. The knife wound that nicked his liver from Alice Springs. The surgical scar on his lower left leg where the fracture was repaired after the Johannesburg affair. _Most people have photo albums, Solo. You've got scars._

Not to mention all the scars that nobody would ever see. _Except the Reverend Emie_.

* * *

The Chase- Park Plaza was where he and Illya stayed during their last mission. The one that brought him to Emie.

Emie opened the door to her suite wearing black trousers and a deep red cowl neck sweater. "Coffee?" she asked. "I understand that you and I both like our coffee black. Anything else makes it worthless, I think."

Napoleon scanned the room. French doors stood open to the balcony that provided a fabulous view of Forest Park.

"How was your flight?" she asked, sipping her coffee.

"Okay, thanks for asking," Napoleon said, taking the offered cup.

"You lie," she said, turning to face him.

"Look, Reverend Cates," he said, "I'm going to do my best to get through this with a minimum of damage -- for both of us. Tell me what you want to know, I'll tell you, and then we're done."

"You may call me Reverend Mother," she smiled, taking another sip of coffee. "That's what my friends call me, especially when they think I'm overbearing." She paused, "And, Mr. Solo, don't presume to threaten me. Alexander would not appreciate it."

"Don't threaten me!" he retorted, walking toward the balcony.

"We're making good progress," she said. "You're pissed. It takes energy to be pissed."

Napoleon turned and made for the door. "Don't think about leaving," Emie said, calmly, "it's the last thing you'll do. There is an agent in the hall with orders from Alexander to -- how do you secret agent folk say it -- neutralize you. That would be very messy."

Napoleon dropped to the couch already feeling defeated. He was surprised that he felt tears stinging his eyes.

"When I returned to UNCLE headquarters in New York Mr. Waverly relieved me of my command," Napoleon said, staring into the middle ground. "Made me leave my ID and my gun. I was stunned. That's when he sent me to psych."

He put his back against the arm of the couch and stretched out. He was surprised at how tense he felt, his legs cramped and his head throbbed.

"What happened to your hand?" she asked, pointing to the bandage.

Napoleon glanced at the half-assed bandage. "I broke a glass last night and cut myself. Throwing glasses into the fire takes perfect timing."

"I want you to relax and begin at the beginning," she said, watching him.

He began with the meeting he and Illya had in New York with Mr. Waverly. He described the assignment: fly to St. Louis, meet a local field agent with information on the target, and neutralize the target. That simple. "And, then everything went to hell," he said. "The St. Louis office had been compromised. I saw my partner, Illya Kuryakin, shot – killed, I thought – in front of my eyes.".

"Thanks for the Cliff Note version, Mr. Solo," Emie said. "Now, begin again and tell me everything you remember."

"I just did," Napoleon said, sitting up on the couch and dropping his legs over the side. "I've told you what I remember and I'm done, finished." He stood up and began to walk toward the door of the suite.

"Mr. Solo, I remind you of the agent awaiting you in the hallway," Emie said coolly. "Please be seated and begin again."

Napoleon returned to the couch and this time lay down stuffing a pillow under his head. He was silent for a moment. Emie noticed that his legs twitched slightly and that he didn't seem to know what to do with his hands.

"Illya thought this was a stupid assignment for the two of us," he began. "We'd just completed a very complicated assignment that took us from Russia to Europe to Asia and then the Middle East all in the space of 10 days. We were exhausted, hoping for some downtime.

"Shit, we didn't even get to unpack. The minute we arrived at headquarters Mr. Waverly summoned us to his office and gave us this assignment. Usually, we debrief and then do paperwork, but not this time," Napoleon said, clinching and unclenching his fists.

"Why, do you suppose, that Alexander wanted you both to take on another assignment so soon?" Emie asked.

"Don't know," Napoleon answered, his face reflecting a frown -- or was it a grimace. "So, anyway, we ended up in St. Louis, met with the field agent,..."

"What is her name, Mr. Solo?" Emie asked softly.

"Amy Schallert. The little bitch," he answered remembering the beautiful, tall blonde that had shared his bed the night before all hell broke loose. "I thought, 'She's a rookie. Doesn't have a clue about this business, just what she learned in Survival School, '" Napoleon said.

"Not so much a rookie that you weren't interested in continuing her education in the spy business, though?" Emie said, watching as Napoleon registered discomfort at her comment.

_Shit, _Napoleon thought, _she knows about Amy and me._

"Don't concern yourself, Mr. Solo," Emie said, "As I noted early on, your reputation precedes you. Continue please."

"We met that Friday afternoon at the field office and reviewed the same reports we'd seen in New York. I just wanted to make sure we hadn't missed anything. These 'simple' assignments can go sour damn quick. Neither Illya nor I found anything to worry about.

"That night, about 11:30, the three of us drove to the apartment complex where the target lived. Nothing went according to plan after that," Napoleon said, his voice growing hard.

"What went wrong?" Emie asked.

"Everything!" Napoleon shouted, his hands becoming fists. "Absolutely every goddamned thing!

"Illya and Amy posed as a couple looking for an apartment. They'd knock on the target apartment, the guy would answer the door, neutralize the target, set the scene as a suicide, and leave."

Napoleon realized that a thin line of sweat had broken out above his lip. His fingers were aching from being squeezed into fists.

"Napoleon," Emie's voice broke into his thoughts, "Tell the story. Let it go."

He took a deep breath as if he were diving into a bottomless pool. "I stayed with the car ready to evacuate when the assignment was complete. My communicator was open to channel F, the one we use between agents in the field, and I could hear everything.

"Illya and Amy entered the building, making small talk on the elevator. Amy was nervous about this being her first field assignment. Illya mumbled something about being sure of her competence.

"I heard the elevator doors opened and Illya draw his gun. That's what we would normally do, get ready for the first contact.

"She knocked at the door and I heard her ask for the manager. Then the door opened the gunfire started. People were yelling, more people than should have been there.

He paused, running his hands over his face and taking another deep breath.

"Illya screamed at Amy to get down. He said something in Russian -- cursing -- that's one foreign language skill I've picked up," Napoleon tried to chuckle at his joke.

"Let's have a break, Napoleon," Emie said. "You need some rest and I need a break. We'll have some lunch and begin again later."

He checked his watch. They'd been talking and arguing nearly three hours.

* * *

Napoleon headed for the balcony fishing in his shirt pocket for his smokes. He hadn't smoked regularly in years, but this assignment had brought back his habit with a vengeance. _Being forced to deal with this bitch isn't helping. _He lit up and drew the hot smoke deep into his lungs. It felt good.

Emie joined him and lit her own cigarette. "I've quit more times than I can count," she said softly. "It's a nasty habit, but one that offers some comfort."

They stood silently watching the traffic on Kingshighway thicken as workers headed home. There was a knock on the door. Emie welcomed the room service guy and the hallway UNCLE agent into the room. "I've examined the tray and found nothing of concern," the agent said. Emie signed the receipt and the UNCLE agent ushered the server out the door and returned to his post.

Napoleon hadn't realized how hungry he was. Since this last assignment nothing had tasted good except scotch and he had dropped 10 pounds. Charlie, Dr. Elizabeth Charles, chief of UNCLE medical had expressed some concern and the shrinks followed suit.

"After we've finished, I want you to rest," Emie said, placing a spoonful of neatly cut fruit on Napoleon's plate.

"I don't need a nap," Napoleon replied, looking at this pain-in-the-ass woman.

"Mr. Solo -- Napoleon -- I'm not asking you. I'm telling you. I have something to help you rest for a couple of hours. You'll take it and then we'll move on," Emie said, pouring a glass of wine for each of them.

After lunch Emie produced a small pill and a glass of water, "This will not react with the wine you've had. It will merely help you relax and fall asleep. I'll wake you later."

Emie ushered Napoleon to the second bedroom of the suite. "Your clothing is in the closet and in the dresser. Your toiletries are in the bath. It may be helpful if you have a shower," she said, turning down the king-sized bed and plumping the pillows. "Rest well."

* * *

Emie opened her communicator, "Channel D," she said quietly.

"Waverly here," came the prompt reply.

"Alexander," she said, turning to her notes, "Mr. Solo is having a nap. I told him that I would be in contact with you."

"Do you really have time for naps, Emie?" Mr. Waverly asked, sounding just a little frustrated. "You've got my best agent in quarantine and I need him back in the field pronto."

"Alexander," she said, her voice calm and low, "you do your work and I'll do mine. Reconstructing this last assignment will not come easily. Be patient."

"You've got three days, Emie," Mr. Waverly said, his voice growing tired, "and then I want him back in New York and ready for an assignment." She frowned at his tone.

"I'll take as much time as we need, Alexander," she replied, giving no quarter. "You've asked me to take this assignment. I won't interfere in your work and don't you interfere in mine. Emerson out."

Mr. Waverly looked at the microphone, almost shocked at her reply. _This is Emie your dealing with, Waverly. You know better than to push her or make demands._

* * *

Napoleon turned on the shower and waited for the water to steam. He stripped, dropping his clothing on the floor. In minutes he felt much more relaxed and even a little tired. That was a feeling he hadn't known recently. _Maybe she's right, _he thought, _a nap might help me finish this more quickly._

He slipped his naked body between the cool sheets and dropped his head on the pillow. Within seconds he was asleep.

In the past few weeks sleep had a battle. Getting to sleep often came at the bottom of an empty bottle of Scotch. Staying asleep never happened because he knew what would happen next. The dream would begin and continue, like a bad film loop, all night. He hated it. He feared it. Living the reality once was too much, but to replay it every moment as he tried to sleep was unbearable.

Somewhere, in the deepest recesses of his unconscious mind, the dream began. Gunshots rang out. He fumbled for the car door handle. He ran like a man with lead shoes. He couldn't get the door to the building open.

He heard screaming as he pulled himself up staircase after staircase. He opened his mouth to yell, to say that he was coming, but nothing came out.

Then he was at the apartment door and he pointed his gun at the THRUSH agent that was firing at Illya. He pulled the trigger and a red and white flag with the word "BANG!" popped out.

He smelled gunpowder and smoke, lots of smoke. He threw down his gun and ran toward Illya, but his feet weren't moving nearly fast enough. Amy fired over his head and hit one of the THRUSH agents who laughed in her face and fired back. She dropped, wounded in the head.

He picked Illya up and dragged him toward the door. Blood was everywhere soaking the cheap carpet. He rolled Illya onto his back and watched as Illya's blood turned his white shirt crimson. Illya's eyes were open, staring at the ceiling like a dead man. Napoleon felt Illya's neck for a carotid pulse and put pressure on the wound.

His scream woke him up.

Napoleon was drenched in sweat. He sat up in bed and looked around the darkened room trying to place himself.

"Napoleon, tell me. Right now," Emie said from her perch on the edge of his bed.

"I can't. Please, Emie, I can't," he said softly, gathering the bedclothes around him. He took a deep breath. "Let me shower first, okay?" _I'll need a shower and a stiff drink, not necessarily in that order._

He stepped into the shower feeling the cool water on his hot, sweaty skin -- like a fever breaking. He leaned his forehead against the cool tile and wept.

* * *

Napoleon dressed in a light-blue cashmere sweater and dark blue trousers. He slipped on his tasseled mocks and brushed his short dark hair. He looked at his reflection, surprised at how beaten he looked. The dark circles under his eyes seemed to have grown since yesterday. The trembling in his hands was evident.

_Yes, indeed, Mr. Solo, you look every inch the consummate secret agent, _he thought. _You're a freaking disaster. _

He stepped back, took a deep breath, and headed for the door.

Emie was waiting. She had dimmed the lights and lit small candles around the room. He noticed the scent -- lavender. It reminded him of his third grade teacher, Miss Spencer, and brought a fleeting smile to his face.

"We've learned that candles, lavender scented candles, can help trigger the senses of smell and taste."

"Nice," Napoleon said, standing at the French doors. "Reminds me of my third grade teacher. She always wore a lavender scent. Maybe that's why she was the first woman I fell in love with." Emerson smiled at the comparison.

"Please, make yourself comfortable." He stepped away from the couch.

"I don't want to talk about the dream," Napoleon said softly, still standing.

"I know you don't, but you don't have the luxury of not talking about it. Ignoring this piece of the process will make your recovery impossible," Emie waived toward the couch.

Napoleon took his time, but finally settled on the couch. Taking a sip of the tea she offered, he said, "I'm not going to lie down this time. It's bad enough that I dream this shit every time I try to sleep without having to be awake and tell the story."

Emie waited silently.

Napoleon squeezed his eyes tightly. The tears pricked his eyelids and he struggled for control. He crossed his arms across his chest and felt his fingers dig into his arms.

"I hear gunshots. I fumbled for the car door handle. I run like a man with lead shoes. Like the Frankenstein Monster.

"I can't get the goddamned door open -- the building door. Somebody's screaming and I'm climbing a million stairs, but not getting any where. I point my gun at a THRUSH agent, the one firing toward Illya. Nothing happens. My gun's like a carnival gun -- pull the trigger and a flag pops out. "BANG!"

"What do you smell, Napoleon?" Emie asked softly.

"Gunpowder. Smoke, like there's a fire somewhere. I'm trying to get to Illya, to knock him down. I can't move.

"Amy fires over my head. The bullet hits a THRUSH agent, but he doesn't bleed. He doesn't fall. He just laughs at her and fires back.

"I pick Illya up," he said, making the motion of lifting a body. I drag him toward the door.

"Blood's everywhere. Bright red. Illya's blood. It's soaking everything. I can't stop it," Napoleon pressed his hands on his legs, "I can't stop it."

"What did you do next?" Emie asked.

"I roll Illya onto his back. His shirt is soaked with blood. His eyes are open, staring at the ceiling like a dead man. He's got a carotid pulse, weak, but there. I hold him, pressing on his chest with my hand. I just keep pushing my hand into his chest. The blood keeps coming. It just fucking keeps pumping out of him."

Napoleon sat up, wiping the tears from his face. "I need a smoke."

"I'll join you," she said, collecting her pack of cigarettes and lighter.

They stood on the balcony watching the setting sun cast shadows across the park. The young mother's that had strolled through the park earlier with their babies are replaced by lovers. They walk arm-in-arm through the gathering dusk. Hospital staff from Jewish Hospital and Washington University slip away for a quick dinner before the evening rush. "Normal people with normal lives," Napoleon observed, lighting Emie's cigarette.

"Thank you, Napoleon," she said, taking a deep drag on the cigarette. "There are no normal people and no normal lives." She silently watched the peaceful scene beneath them, and then offered, "You're doing much better than you think."

"Am I?" Napoleon replied with a rueful laugh. "You're right, Emie," he said, calling her by her nickname for the first time. "I'm making fucking light speed progress."

He leaned on the railing and shook his head. "I can't believe that you think talking ad nauseam about this is going to change a goddamned thing. What happened to Illya is done. I can't change that."

"This isn't about Illya. It isn't about bringing him back," Emie said firmly, the smoky quality of her voice replaced by tempered steel. "That may not happen. This is about bringing you back."

"Maybe I don't want to come back," Napoleon said, surprised at his own words.

"Ah, surprised yourself, didn't you?" she said, flicking an ash toward the ground.

He looked at her. "Yes. I can't imagine that I'd ever do any other kind of work. I can't imagine not working for UNCLE. I'm an UNCLE agent, the top agent. It's who I am," he said, stubbing out his cigarette.

"And, if Illya doesn't make it," he said, his voice breaking, "I don't give a shit about what I do."

* * *

Napoleon poured himself another cup of coffee and returned to the couch, this time his back faced Emerson.

"What did you do wrong, Napoleon?" Emie asked. "How did you fail your partner?"

Napoleon issued a soft whistle. "Jesus, you don't soft-peddle this shit do you?

"My question stands."

Napoleon sighed. "I wasn't there. I should have been with him. I should have stopped her."

"Did you suspect that Amy had turned? Did you have any evidence, any proof, that she had plans to betray you?"

He paused, taking in Emie's question. "No. There was no reason to suspect that she was going to lead us into a trap. None."

"Let me take you back to the apartment. There's shooting, smoke, blood. What happened to your partner?"

Napoleon closed his eyes, forcing his mind back to the apartment. "Illya's crouched behind an overturned chair. He's firing at the THRUSH agents."

"Where is Amy?"

"She's behind him, leaning against the wall. Illya sort of stands up. Not all the way, but enough that he can grab her. He's trying to pull her to cover."

"Her gun is drawn?

"Yes. He calls her name and makes a grab for her arm."

"Did he manage to pull her down?"

"No," Napoleon said, stopping in mid thought. "No, she pushed him away."

He fell silent, remembering that night.

"Napoleon," Emie said.

"She fucking pushed him away. He's trying to save her worthless life and she pushes him away."

"Where are you?"

"I'm moving across the room, ducking behind the couch, trying to reach Illya. Trying to give him some cover."

"Are you firing your gun?"

"Yes, I'm shooting at everything that moves. A couple of THRUSH agents are hit by my shots, but there are still more. They keep shooting."

Napoleon stopped speaking, bringing his hands to his face. "Jesus Christ! I shot Illya!"

Emie touched his shoulder. "I'll let you know when we reach a conclusion. Go back to the apartment. You're behind the couch, firing your gun. You're trying to give Illya some cover."

"Yes. I'm firing. How the hell did I shoot him? How the hell did that happen?" he asked, sitting up and turning toward Emie.

"Napoleon!" Emerson's voice is sharp. "Is Illya facing you or facing Amy?"

He closed his eyes and tried to see the apartment. "I don't know. I can't remember."

Emie opened the door and spoke quietly to their guard. Napoleon sat on the couch holding his head.

"Get a jacket," she said. "We're going to the apartment."

* * *

They parked in the same place Napoleon had used. He climbed out of their car and slowly turned to face the building where it all happened. He felt himself shaking, head to toe.

The agent joined them. Emie stood next to Napoleon. "What's he doing here?" Napoleon asked, looking at the agent.

"We're going to recreate that night. We're going to take the same steps you took, see it, smell it, hear it, taste it. There were three of you that night and there are to be three of us."

She took Napoleon's hand, "Which door did you enter?"

He led her to the door and opened it. "There's the elevator," he said. "The stairs are around this corner."

They climbed to the fourth floor. "Did you run up the steps? Take them two or three at a time?

Napoleon stopped on the landing between three and four. "Yes. I ran up the steps. Gun drawn."

They turned the corner and faced the apartment door. Yellow caution tape was curled on the floor and the door had been sealed by the detectives. "Was it open or closed?" Emie asked.

"Open."

She broke the seal and opened the door, slamming it off the wall. "Go in the same way you did that night," she said, pushing Napoleon ahead of her. What did you do?"

He glanced at the carpet in the hallway frozen in place. _That's Illya's blood_, he thought. _That's where we were._

"Napoleon," Emie said, bringing him back to reality, "What did you do?"

"I entered firing my gun. I shot the first THRUSH agent I saw. I fired at others, but I don't know if I killed them."

They crossed the threshold. The stench of smoke and gun powder, the stench of blood, still in the air. He caught his breath and swallowed hard.

"Where did you shelter?" Emie asked.

"Here, behind the couch," Napoleon said, releasing her hand and dropping to one knee, hand outstretched as if holding his gun.

"Where is Amy?"

"She's there," he said, turning to his left, pointing to a spot about two yards away.

Emie stood where Napoleon was pointing. "Here?" He nodded. "Her gun is drawn, correct?"

"Yes. She fired toward me, over my head, and killed a THRUSH agent."

"Where is Illya?"

"There," Napoleon pointed to the overturned chair.

"Agent Marks, please take that position. Napoleon, tell him what to do."

"Crouch down behind the chair and draw your weapon."

Agent Marks did as he was told. "Your back is to Emie. Now, turn and reach up. Try to grab her arm."

Agent Marks turned toward Emie and realized that he would have to rise a little before he could reach her.

"Freeze right there, Agent Marks," Emie said as Agent Marks grabbed for her. "What do you see, Napoleon?"

Napoleon looked at the scene. "Illya's exposed. He's in the open."

"What do you see?" Emie asked again, holding her arms in the position of a shooter, hands locked around the grip of an imaginary gun.

Napoleon's eyes were wide. He looked at Emerson. "She shot him. Amy shot Illya," he said, his voice sounding very distant.

* * *

Emie walked to the balcony. The sun had long set replaced by the street lights that illuminated Kingshighway. Old-fashioned street lamps glowed throughout Forest Park. The street below was fairly deserted and quiet except for the occasional ambulance screaming its way to Barnes Emergency Department.

_Sound and fury_, Emerson thought, watching a limousine take to the curb escaping a speeding ambulance. _Napoleon has the sound, he can relive his story, and he has the fury of understanding what actually happened. Now, for the light._

Napoleon joined her offering a light for her cigarette. They smoked in silence. "Napoleon, it's nearly 2:00 a.m. I'm tired, exhausted and I'm sure you are, too. I think it's time to get some sleep."

"I don't think I can," he said, his voice soft.

"Better living through chemistry, I always say. It's been hours since we're eaten. If you're hungry, I'll order something."

They went in and Napoleon raided the fridge. "Sure," Napoleon answered. He'd found the left over wine from lunch and was helping himself.

"I'm not sure that's the best choice," Emie's voice came from the sitting room as she motioned for a glass of her own. "How about an omelet or something?"

"Sure," Napoleon said. _No matter, it'll taste like ashes after all of this, _he thought.

Emie called room service and Napoleon flipped on the television. The Midnight Movie filled the screen. Myrna Loy and William Powell playing Nora and Nick Charles, dancing and drinking their way through another New York mystery. He turned it off.

The UNCLE agent in the hall way knocked signaling the arrival of room service. Napoleon opened the door slowly. _Some habits die hard, _he chuckled to himself. He was surprised when the agent -- a new agent -- wheeled the cart into the room, no room service person in sight.

Without thinking Napoleon was on the man, dropping him to one knee with an elbow to the kidney as the new agent reached for his gun. Napoleon attacked again and the man retaliated with a fist to the gut. Napoleon dropped to his knees, winded and in pain. The man grabbed his gun and took aim at Napoleon's head.

Suddenly, the man collapsed, out cold.

Emie was standing over both of them, the remains of a large table lamp in her hands.

"Maybe you missed your calling," Napoleon joked, "I'd hate to see what you'd do with a gun!"

He quickly rifled the man's pockets finding a second clip, a garrote, and a stiletto. Emie had her communicator in hand, calling the Old Man.

"Hey," Napoleon said, "I'll take care of this," heading to his bedroom, speaking into his communicator while Emie followed. "Open channel C. This is Solo. I need check and clean up immediately. You have my location."

"Calling in cavalry, Napoleon?" Emie called. "Napoleon?"

* * *

She found Napoleon on the floor, out cold.

Emie spoke calmly, "Open Channel D - stat."

"Waverly here," came the reply.

"Alexander, I need some help, pronto. We've had a security breach. Someone has made an attempt on Napoleon."

"Mr. Solo just made contact," Mr. Waverly said. "The C&C crew should be there now."

"That's not all, Alexander. Napoleon's out cold on the floor. I'm not sure what's going on. A little medical help would be welcome -- stat," Emie said.

"There's a med tech with C&C. Not to worry, Mr. Solo is no stranger to unconsciousness. Waverly out."

Napoleon began to stir. "What happened?" he asked groggily.

"You passed out, but I don't know why. Alexander said there will be a med tech with the C&C crew to check you over," Emie grabbed two pillows from the bed and shoved them under his legs. She covered him with a blanket from the closet. "Stay put until the team gets here," she ordered. "From the looks of it you whacked your head on something on the way down. I'll be right back."

The med tech agreed that Napoleon needed stitches and went to work. Napoleon winced involuntarily. _Jesus, I hate lidocaine! _he thought, feeling the needle pierce the raw edges of the cut. Emie busied herself with getting Napoleon's bed ready. Twelve stitches later the tech collected all of the remnants of the suturing and departed with the rest of the C&C crew

"I think you should get to bed," Emie said, helping Napoleon to stand.

"No, really, I'm fine, Emie," Napoleon said, attempting to steady himself. _This is the first time in two weeks I've felt useful, _he thought.

"I'm not sure you need to put anything on your stomach after this. I don't want you vomiting in your sleep and choking to death." Emie said, fluffing up the pillows.

"Thank you, Emie, for that cheerful image" he said, "but, I really am hungry."

Napoleon looked at himself in the mirror. His pale blue cashmere sweater now sported polka dots of blood. _Del Floria is going to have my hide for this, _he thought. He pulled on his pajamas.

He went into the bath and cleaned up his face. The neatly sutured wound covered a goose egg swelling that was a beautiful shade of purple mixed with red. _Illya will never let me live this one down, _he chuckled.

Illya.

Napoleon hurried to the commode and vomited violently.

* * *

Emie rolled the food service cart into his bedroom as Napoleon came out of the bathroom mopping his face. "Sorry, Napoleon, you look like death warmed over," she commented, patting the bed.

"You really know how to charm a guy," he said as she hurried him into bed.

"Prop yourself up and I'll serve you. I've warmed the food so it's edible. Trust me, not everybody gets this kind of treatment."

"Thank you, Mother Superior," Napoleon said, sarcastically.

She pulled her chair closer to the bed and began to season her food. She glanced up and noticed Napoleon watching her. "What?"

"You are a piece of work," Napoleon said, smiling at her. "So, what do you do in real life?"

"Real life?" she asked, chuckling. "This is real life, Napoleon. I volunteer doing trauma/stress debriefing and counseling with firefighters, police, and ambulance workers. And, I work with my denomination in an administrative capacity. That's where I get to do all the parson stuff -- preach, teach, baptize, confirm, marry, bury -- the usual stuff."

"But this isn't any of that 'stuff', as you call it," Napoleon said, taking a mouth full of omelet. "How did you get to this kind of work?"

"I've got a background in emergency medicine and I could see the need for some place to dump the shit that happens out there," she said, sipping her coffee. "When this happened Alexander called me and asked if I would be willing to work with you. And, here we are."

"Too simple," Napoleon said, smearing strawberry jam on a piece of whole grain toast. "No simple country parson knows how to do this."

"Not completely true, Napoleon. Ministers do this sort of work all the time with their parishioners. And they work with other professionals in the field, though they don't necessarily end up working with stressed out UNCLE agents. That's the only part that's different," she said, taking a bite of her omelet.

They continued eating while Napoleon asked more questions about her life in ministry. Napoleon realized how hungry he was and good it had tasted. He found himself left with one slice of toast.

"My turn," Emie said, refilling their coffee cups. "How did you end up with UNCLE? I'm thinking that you didn't find this listed in the New York _Times_ employment ads."

"Not exactly," Napoleon said, relaxing against the pile of pillows. "I had just gotten out of Korea. I was young and dumb and looking for something exciting to do. The Old Man, sorry, Mr. Waverly, got in touch with me. He had my military file and recognized that I'd had some specialized training besides the usual infantry stuff. Besides, I'm not cut out to be an insurance agent." He grinned and immediately winced.

"I made it through Survival School, not because I was so talented, but because I wouldn't give in. It's like OCS only more demanding. Sometimes I think I spent half my time unconscious or healing. I'm still amazed that Mr. Waverly kept me on. I wasn't the most compliant trainee," he said.

"Imagine that," Emie said, laughing. "I can imagine what it must have taken to turn you into a sophisticated international agent.

He pointed to his head, "This is the true mark of a sophisticated international agent. Glad you didn't miss it."

"As the Boss will tell you I've never been good at following directions," Napoleon said, smiling at her. "But, then I figured that I wasn't being trained to follow directions, I was being trained to think ahead of the situation. Sometimes following directions will get you killed."

"Alexander holds you in high regard, Napoleon," she said. "You wouldn't be the top agent if he had any doubts about you."

"He must be having doubts," Napoleon said, a shadow falling across his face, "otherwise we wouldn't be here, would we?"

"No," she said, rising and clearing the dishes, "you've called that one incorrectly. Alexander has no doubts about your skills as an agent. His concern is about you as a person -- a man -- who happens to be an UNCLE agent. He realized that your response to this event was out of character and that you would not be effective in the field until you worked your way through these 'demons.'"

"I just need some time that's all," Napoleon said, frowning at Emie. "I really don't need to have my head examined -- or anything else for that matter. I just need some time."

"That's what Alexander has given you. Time to examine not just your head, but your psyche, your heart -- the real Napoleon. And, you aren't done until I say you're done, understand?" she admonished, wheeling the cart to the sitting room. "Stay put. I'll be back in a second."

She returned with a glass of water and another small pill. "Take this, please," she said offering the pill.

"I'm not a big fan of drugs," Napoleon said, not reaching for the pill or the glass.

"Didn't ask, Napoleon," she said, sitting on the edge of his bed. "Take the pill or I'll have to call the boss."

"You look like you're going to hear my bedtime prayers," he said nastily, popping the small pill into his mouth and following with a swig of water.

"I can do that, too, if you like," she said. "Now then, I want you to relax and get some rest. The pill I just gave you will help you sleep and take care of that headache I'm sure you've already got."

He wriggled down in bed and she adjusted the sheets and blanket. "Good night, Napoleon. See you in the morning," and she closed the door behind her.

"'Night, Mother."

* * *

Emie settled at the desk in her bedroom opening her notebook. _I hate these damned reports, _she thought. _They never fully capture the extent of the sessions. I would much prefer a face-to-face report with Alexander._

The Mother Superior Affair, she titled the report. It appears that Mr. Solo has been sustaining an unacceptably high trauma and stress level for years. No human can withstand such constant demands on body, mind and spirit without reaching a breaking point. I know that's not what you want to read, Alexander, but it's true.

Having been sent on what was to be a 'simple' assignment makes the outcome of The Arch Affair even more untenable. I believe that Mr. Solo reached his personal limit and his mind and body closed down. I believe it is a temporary situation.

We talked most of the day with Mr. Solo remembering some of the events of that night, i.e., Ms. Schallert had betrayed them, but was unable to recall the critical incident correctly.

During an enforced nap he experienced the recurring dream -- night terror -- that's been plaguing him for the past two weeks.

This provided an entry point for our second session. He concluded that he had shot Mr. Kuryakin, which I know to be incorrect.

I decided that it was time to visit the scene of the shooting. Using Agent Marks to portray Mr. Kuryakin, we reconstructed most of the events of that night.

Mr. Solo understands that Ms. Schallert intentionally shot Mr. Kuryakin. He does not yet realize that he shot and killed Ms. Schallert. That's work for tomorrow.

He's sleeping at the moment and I'm expecting that if the dream repeats itself the conscious brain will incorporate what he learned today. I will be in contact with you tomorrow. Mother Superior

1:30 a.m. _If I'm going to make any progress tomorrow I need a shower and some sleep, _she thought, closing the notebook and returning it to her locked briefcase.

The shower cooled her skin. She tipped her head back and let the water flow over her hair. She was not just a little surprised as her hot tears mixed with the coolness of the water.

_So much for being a dispassionate professional_, she thought, reaching for a thick towel and drying her body. As the towel reached the corner of her left eye and brushed against the small scar she realized that she was in pain -- a 'red screamer' as she called them.

The headaches were quite infrequent these days. _Shit, they should be,_ she thought,_ it's been nearly five years_.

* * *

It was a simple accident that landed her in the hospital with multiple skull fractures, a deep cut on her scalp, and the small cut on her face. She remembered asking the doctor how the cut had happened. "Must have caught the rain trough on the windshield of the car," he had said, pouring over her x-rays. "Not a problem. I expect it will heal on its own."

The dreams of that night had haunted her for years. Standing at the corner with her camera in hand, checking settings and getting ready to shoot the fire scene. She stepped off the curb and that's the last thing she remembered, for a while anyway.

Once at home the dreams began in earnest. Bright car headlights pursuing her down darkened streets. The smell of burning rubber from tires that wouldn't stop. The sickeningly sweet taste of what she later learned was cerebrospinal fluid leaking into the back of her throat from within the auditory canal. The caustic burning of vomit that she couldn't stop.

It had taken her years to put her life back together. Years of doing her own post trauma work, but she had finally taken the chaotic event and put it in its place. Emie had mastered her own demons and decided to help others do the same.

She pulled on her pajamas and padded toward her bed. _That's what you're here for, Emie,_ she thought, downing several pain pills,_ to help Napoleon sort out his demons and slay them._

* * *

Napoleon lay still for just a second and the darkness closed in.

He was standing in the hallway, alone. He glanced at the carpet. Illya's blood. The stench of smoke and gun powder -- blood -- was back in full force.

Then he stood in the apartment, looking around at the chaos._ Armageddon_, he thought. _You know what happened to Illya. You know that Amy shot him. You remembered._

_What happened to Amy? She's dead, shot in the head. What happened?_

_She's going to shoot me, _he remembered. _She's aiming her gun at me. The bitch just shot my partner and now she's going to do me, too._

He looked at his hand. He clutched his Walther P-38 and aimed at her.

He jolted awake. His head throbbed.

"I killed the bitch," he said aloud. "I killed her!"

* * *

Emie dreamed that the New Madrid fault line was quaking. _I'm in St. Louis and they're having a freaking earthquake, _she thought.

She opened her eyes and slowly focused on Napoleon's bruised and swollen face as he shook her awake.

"I had the dream again," he said, calmly.

"What?" she answered, forcing herself to wake up.

They wandered to the balcony with fresh cups of black coffee. It was 4:30 a.m. and the sun was just beginning to pink the midnight blue sky.

"It was different," Napoleon said, leaning his back against the railing.

"So I expected. Tell me," Emie said.

"Amy pointed her gun at me," he said, sounding confused and surprised.

Emie offered Napoleon a cigarette and then took one herself. She took a seat at the patio table and Napoleon offered her a light.

"She aimed at you -- pointed her weapon at you, not someone else," Emie said cradling her coffee mug between her two hands, trying to warm them in the cool early morning air.

"Yes," he said, leaning his back against the railing. "She shot Illya right in front of me. Maybe she thought I wouldn't react so quickly. I don't know.

"All I know is that I was looking down the muzzle of a Walther P-38 and the woman holding the gun wasn't about to hesitate."

"What did you do?" Emie asked, sipping her coffee and watching the first rays of sun illuminate the edge of Forest Park.

"I shot her in the head. Right temple. I killed her," he said. "I killed her," he voice was flat.

* * *

"Open channel D," Emie said.

"Waverly here." He sounds sleepy, Emie thought, thinking of him sitting in his study hoping for word from her.

"We're ready to return to New York," she said. "Napoleon has sorted out the events of that night. He understands what happened, what Amy did, and what he did. I'm not ready to say that's he's completely up to speed, but he's getting close.

"Give us a few more hours sleep and we'll be ready, say 3:00 p.m. tomorrow.

"Today," Mr. Waverly corrected. "Will Mr. Solo be ready for service soon?" Mr. Waverly asked.

"Depends on Mr. Kuryakin, Alexander. If he doesn't pull through, I'm not sure Mr. Solo will be able to return to the field. Emerson out."

* * *

The UNCLE sentry escorted the room service guy into the room, a little surprised to find Napoleon and Emie in their bathrobes at Noon. "I've checked everything, it's clear," he said, young and eager to impress the senior agent.

"Thank you," Napoleon said, offering a nod of approval. The young agent beamed.

"Mr. Solo, with respect sir, I just want you to know that the rest of the St. Louis team is very sorry for what happened. It won't happen again," the young agent said, retreating to his post.

Emie took control of the food service cart. "Looks like a farm hand breakfast to me," she said, uncovering plates of eggs, hash browns, bacon, and pancakes. "Somebody must be hungry."

"Starved," Napoleon said, dishing up a plate full of food.

"Good sign, Napoleon, the return of appetite," she said, helping herself to some pancakes and bacon. "I don't want to rain on your parade, but we're not finished just yet."

"I know," he answered, reaching for his coffee cup. "I know."

Emie unfolded the newspaper. "You've made the front page, below the fold though, 'Poker Game Gone Bad - Multiple Homicide', she read. 'Police department sources report that the five men found dead in a downtown apartment died as a result of a poker game gone bad. The five were coworkers and had gathered for their weekly game when one player was apparently accused of cheating. Gunfire erupted in the small apartment and when the smoke cleared three of the men were dead of gunshot wounds. The other two victims died en route to a local hospital. St. Louis Police homicide detectives believe that one of the men opened fire and the other men followed suit. The case has been closed.' It goes on to name the five men."

"Um," Napoleon said, downing a bite of scrambled eggs. "Poker game gone bad. You just had to be there."

* * *

Emie reappeared dressed in jeans, a sweatshirt, and sneakers. Her hair was combed back and she had used gel to hold it in place. She smiled as Napoleon came out of his room.

"Don't worry about your stuff," he said. "Agents will come in, clean the place up a little, pack our stuff, and it'll be in New York before we are."

She grabbed a fresh cup of coffee and poured one for him. "Let's practice our nasty habit," she said, grinning as she collected her cigarettes.

He joined her on the balcony surprised at how bright the sun was shining and how many people were wandering through the park. Everything looked brighter today.

He offered her a light and then leaned against the balcony railing facing her. "Emie," he said, looking at his hands, "let me apologize for being such an ass."

"No need, Napoleon," she said, sipping her coffee. "I'd have been worried if you hadn't been. People who refuse to fight, people who haven't enough energy to be an ass rarely recover from this."

"Thank you," he said, smiling at her.

"Don't thank me just yet, we've still got work to do in New York," she said, flicking her ashes to the street below. "You know, Napoleon, there's never water balloons when you really need them."

He laughed out loud and then, impulsively, hugged her, kissing her cheek in the bargain.

* * *

Alexander greeted them at his office door and invited them into his private study.

"Congratulations, Mr. Solo," he said, lighting his pipe, "Emerson tells me you've made extraordinary progress."

"Thank you, sir," he answered, taking the cigarette Emie offered.

Mr. Waverly gave a disapproving look.

"I'm afraid that I've led him astray, Alexander," Emie said, as Napoleon lit her cigarette and then his. "Perhaps we'll quit together."

Mr. Waverly opened a thick folder and drew out Emie's report. "Shall we debrief, Emie?" he asked.

"Later, Alexander," she said, holding up her hand. "It's been a hard few days and I'm sure all of us could do with some good food, good wine, and good conversation. How about it?"

"May I join you?" a raspy raw voice said from behind them. Illya, thin and pale leaned heavily on an ebony wood cane.

Napoleon jumped from his chair and embraced his friend. "Careful, Napoleon, I've got enough problems without being crushed!," Illya said, smiling at his friend.

"Reverend Emerson Myer Cates, may I introduce Mr. Illya Kuryakin, Section 2, Number 2," Alexander said.

Emie rose from her chair and offered her hand to Illya. "It is good to meet you, Mr. Kuryakin. Napoleon has told me a good deal about you," she said taking his offered hand. She was surprised at how small and delicate it was, so cool to the touch.

"Then we really must dine together without Napoleon in tow," Illya said, a rare smile crinkling around his shadowed blue eyes. "I shall want to defend myself."

"I would guess, Mr. Kuryakin, that you and I will have more than sufficient time to talk about Mr. Solo," Emie said, smiling at the frail looking Russian.

"Not tonight, Illya. You'll not be rid of me anytime soon," Napoleon said, basking in the presence of his friend and partner.

_Not anytime soon, _he smiled.

* * *

The next morning Napoleon was summoned to Mr. Waverly's office. "I want you to report to Dr. Charles for a full physical examination, especially that head of yours," Mr. Waverly said, motioning toward Napoleon's wound. "Before we go further in your rehabilitation, I must be assured that you are in good physical condition. They are waiting for you."

The elevator doors opened and Dr. Elizabeth Charles _was_ waiting.

"Ah, Napoleon," she smiled, "How's my favorite UNCLE agent?"

"Just fabulous," Napoleon said, no smile.

Charlie, as she preferred to be called, slipped her arm through Napoleon's. Her sparkling blue eyes took him in, "God, you look like shit."

"There's that winning bedside manner," Napoleon said, forcing a smile. "The Old Man insists on a full physical exam that's the only reason I'm here."

Her hand fluttered to her chest, "Napoleon, I'm wounded to the quick! I can't imagine a man on the planet that wouldn't enjoy having their physical done by me!"

Charlie ushered him into an examining room with directions to strip and put on the requisite robe. "Back in a second. I want to put my hands in the ice machine," she said laughing.

"Don't forget your stethoscope, too" Napoleon shouted at the closing door. He pulled his suit jacket off, tie, and shirt, hanging them on the door. _Jesus, _he thought_, this is such a total waste of time._

Charlie tapped at the door, "Decent?" she called.

"No, I'm never decent," he shot back, pushing off his shoes and removing his trousers. "Give me a sec. I'm getting to the good part."

Charlie opened the door to find Napoleon wrapped in his robe, sitting on the examining table. "Charlie," he said, reaching for her hand, "I'm fine, really."

"I can tell from the stitches in your head," she said, "that's always a sign of good health. Now, shut up, and cooperate with me."

She perched on the little stool and opened his medical folder, pen in hand. "Let's see ... the C&C tech reports that you passed out and cracked your head on the way down," she said, glancing up at him. She stood up and began inspecting his head, "Wow, twelve stitches. I know you're hardheaded, but that's a pretty good gash. I want a head series," she said scribbling in his file.

"There's nothing there," he said, "I'm fine."

"I'm willing to admit that there's 'nothing there', as you put it, but no, you're not fine, Napoleon. You lost consciousness without any help from a pistol grip or a fist," she said, taking him by the hand and pulling him off the table. "Come on, I want to see these pictures."

"Hey, there was a THRUSH agent and we did pound on each other," he said, trying to distract her.

The x-rays showed a light concussion, which was what Charlie expected to see. "Your head's okay," she said, via the microphone while he lay on the cold hard x-ray table. "Back to the room."

Charlie took his blood pressure, checked his pulse, looked in his nose, eyes, and throat, and listened to him breathe. "Damn, you _did_ put that stethoscope in the freezer!" he said, jumping as she pressed the bell to his chest.

She ordered up blood work -- four large vials and three small ones, he discovered. _Jesus, I hate needles_, he thought, as the phlebotomist pushed a _huge_ needle into his vein. "Get dressed Mr. Solo. Dr. Charles wants you in her office, " the young woman said, applying a pressure dressing to his arm.

"Sit," Charlie ordered, pointing toward a hard plastic chair. _It's very clear that UNCLE doesn't worry about comfort in the medical section, _he thought, following her order.

Charlie flipped through page after page of his medical file. "Jesus, Napoleon, she said, "you've got to be more careful. You're not getting any younger, you know."

"More of that winning bedside manner," he retorted, hoping that his smile was relaxed and charming.

"Can it. I read here that you've spent a few days in an intensive intervention," she said, fixing those huge blue eyes on his face, "what's up?"

"Nothing, Charlie. I'm here for a physical exam and I think we're finished," he stood up, prepared to leave.

"Did I say we were finished? No, I didn't," she said. "I've asked a clinical question and I expect an answer. What happened?"

"Look, I'll bet you've got the report right there. Read it. It's really pretty boring stuff and I'd rather not waste time repeating myself," he said, smiling at her and adding what he hoped was a disarming chuckle.

She frowned at him and dropped her head, reading quickly through the reports. Her curly dark hair framed her pale skin. _God, she's beautiful_, Napoleon thought, _mean, but beautiful._

"You're right, this is boring shit," she said, her eyes locking onto his. "You're not approved for field work yet. Know why?"

"Charlie, I've spent almost three days, contemplating my belly button," Napoleon protested. "I'm really not in the mood for an instant replay."

"I'm not asking for an instant replay, asshole," she said, smiling, "I'm asking you to tell me why the Old Man isn't willing to cut you loose."

"You won't take 'I don't know" for an answer,' he said, and he gave a shortened version of his few days with Emie.

"Well, I won't clear you for the field work until she says so," she said slapping the folder closed. "Get dressed and we'll visit with Illya."

* * *

"Before we go in, I want you to know what happened to him that night," she said, collecting Illya's file from the staff desk.

"I know what happened," Napoleon said, a fine sweat breaking out on his upper lip.

"No, I don't think you do," Charlie continued, "here's the ugly detail. He was struck in the chest by a single gunshot -- a standard UNCLE issue weapon, Walther P-38. The bullet entered the medial chest -- near the breast bone -- at the fourth intercostal space," she looked up to see if Napoleon was understanding her. "Get it?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, his stomach beginning to churn.

Charlie continued reading from the chart, "The bullet nicked the sternum and changed direction slightly. That's when the shit really hit the fan," she said glancing up. "Do you need a basin or something?"

"No, I'm fine," he said, swallowing hard.

"The bullet continued through the upper left atrium of the heart and continued posteriorly through the upper lobe of the right lung exiting lateral to the right scapula.

"Illya was stabilized at Barnes Hospital in St. Louis and evacuated via UNCLE medical air services within two hours. When he arrived here, he was taken into surgery. I was the lead surgeon.

"Six hours later he had received seven units of blood and was in stable but grave condition. He was taken to our surgical intensive care unit where his vitals were supported by medications and a ventilator."

"I had dinner with him last night," he said, feeling his skin cover over with a fine, cold sweat. "He looks quite good."

"Damn good for a guy that got his heart blown apart," she said, keeping a wary eye on Napoleon.

"Okay, let's continue," she said flipping to another section of the file. "Illya regained consciousness three days post-surg. Initially he was disoriented, which was expected. We had already begun the process of weaning him from the respirator, which was successful. He has been making steady progress since then. I'm claiming this one as a major success story," she said, smiling at Napoleon.

"How long before he's up to an assignment?" Napoleon asked.

"Jesus, you've got balls, Napoleon!" she said, her voice rising. "I've just told you that he's a train wreck -- you're a fucking train wreck -- and you want to know when he's coming back to partner with you! I don't believe you!"

"Sorry," Napoleon said, looking at his shoes.

"Look, I'm banking that Illya will be back in the field, but it will be months -- and I mean months -- before he's able to take care of himself much less do the secret agent shit. Anyway, you're not ready for assignment, either," she said, touching his shoulder. "Come on, I want to show you something."

_There's a vote of confidence,_ he thought, following Charlie into the hall.

She led him to a bank of lockers where she retrieved a plastic hospital bag, the kind you put your clothing in when you're you stripped down to your skivies and wearing one of those charming gowns.

"In here," she said, entering a lab. She snapped on a pair of latex gloves and dumped the contents of the bag on the lab bench. Napoleon felt ill again, the stench of blood filled the room. Charlie glanced at him, "Sit, Napoleon, head between your knees," she ordered.

Napoleon sat on a lab stool and followed her directions. After a few minutes he stood again and joined her at the bench.

He recognized Illya's watch and a gold ring he wore on his left hand. He noticed Illya's identification packet mixed in with his socks, underwear and shoes. All of the clothing appeared to be covered in blood and shredded.

"They always get scissor happy in the ER," Charlie chuckled, "but that's the fastest and best way to get to the problem."

Napoleon looked at her, a puzzled, frustrated look on his face. "What am I supposed to be seeing here?"

Charlie picked through the clothing. Blood soaked a suit jacket and trousers were discarded. "Here, this is want I want you to see," she said, holding up what was left of Illya's standard white cotton shirt. _He never wore anything but cheap cotton shirts, _Napoleon thought. _I've got to do something about his wardrobe. _

Except it wasn't white anymore.

Napoleon stared hard at the shirt, stiff with dried blood. The buttons were missing, ripped from their threads. Both arms were neatly cut from cuff to shoulder. "What's the point of showing me this?" he asked, anger rising in his voice. "Some sort of shock therapy guaranteed to keep me on the straight and narrow?"

"No, Napoleon. I just wanted you to see why Illya is here recovering. I just wanted you to see why he survived," she said, smoothing the bloody shirt and bringing the two half's of the front together.

"Here," she pointed with a gloved finger. "This is what I wanted you to see."

There, in the middle of the shirt front, directly over the hole where the bullet entered Illya's chest was a hand print.

Napoleon's hand print.

* * *

Charlie walked Napoleon to Illya's door. "I'll be right here if you need me. No macho crap, if you please," she said. Then she stood on tip-toe and kissed Napoleon lightly on the lips. "Thought you might need that," she said with a mischievous smile, "I sure as hell did."

He stood for a few seconds, hand resting on the door jamb. He knew that Illya was doing well, so why did he feel so tense? He turned the knob slowly, as if he was about to enter a THRUST hide-out. Quietly, the door swung open and Napoleon's eyes became accustomed to the soft light in the room.

He could make out Illya's spare form under the white hospital sheet. _Jesus, _he _looks so small, _Napoleon thought, _like a little kid._

Napoleon carefully crossed the room, trying not to make any noise that might disturb his sleeping partner -- his sleeping friend.

_Looks like he's been in my pill stash, _he thought, watching the sheet gently rise and fall. He stood quietly next to Illya's bed. _Well, he's breathing pretty good, _Napoleon _noticed, and he's got some color in his cheeks. That's a good sign._

"Have a seat," Charlie said, standing behind Napoleon. "Try not to wake him. You've just about run him ragged with your little dinner party last night. Looks like he just had some magic juice for pain, but you can touch him."

Napoleon quietly moved a chair close to Illya's bedside. Instinctively he reached for his hand, it was cool and dry unlike that night in the apartment when he seemed to turn blue and clammy instantly. "Thanks for the prompt," Napoleon said. Charlie smiled at them both. Tears were stinging his eyes, _again_.

Illya stirred and squeezed Napoleon's hand. His cornflower blue eyes opened and he made a brave attempt at a smile. "Why isn't she holding my hand?" he asked, his voice hoarse and raspy.

"I don't need to hold your hand, Illya," Charlie said, a very mischievous smile lighting her face, "I've held your heart." She winked and left the room.

Napoleon's smiled. "Be nice to me, you little Russkie. This is the hand that saved your life. I'm having that shirt framed and hung in our office."

Illya moved, trying to get comfortable, and cried out in pain. "Shit," he said in Russian.

"Careful, Illya, you've taught me enough Russian to understand what that means," Napoleon said, trying to help him settle more comfortably.

"I look like a freaking Thanksgiving turkey," Illya said, his soft Russian accent sounding even more exotic with his raspy throat. He looked at Napoleon, his blue eyes suddenly dark. "Where have you been?"

"Took a little personal time," Napoleon lied. "The Boss decided I needed a break, so I took a few days' off."

"I don't remember seeing you," Illya said, looking confused, "truly, I don't remember seeing much of anything for the past couple of weeks."

"I would guess that you've seen a good deal of Dr. Charles," Napoleon said, doing a little 'wink-wink, nudge-nudge' with his eyebrows. He almost thought that Illya blushed!

"Too much, my friend," Illya said, smiling. He tried to stifle a yawn, but was unsuccessful. "Sorry, Napoleon. Nurse Cindy just gave me a shot of joy juice, that ls what she calls it, and it makes me want to sleep."

"Get some rest, Illya," Napoleon said, squeezing his friend's hand. "I'll be right here."

Illya closed his eyes and was instantly asleep. Napoleon settled into his chair, _I'll be right here, my friend, _he thought_. I'm not going anywhere right now. I need to see you sleep. I need to see you breath!_

* * *

"Napoleon," a woman's voice called his name. "Napoleon, wake up, baby. The party's over. We've got to get with Illya and prepare for the raid."

Amy. He opened his eyes and found her in his bed, her blonde head propped on her hand. She pushed herself up and kissed him.

His arms surrounded her and he rolled her onto her back. "I think we've got time for a more little fun, don't you?" he asked, smiling at her as he brushed her hair away from her face.

"Sorry, Nappie, duty calls," she said, slipping away from him and stretching as she sat on the side of the bed. "Got to get a shower, get dressed, and meet that cold-fish partner of yours," she said, her naked body walking away from him.

_Jesus, Napoleon, _he thought, _she's young. You could have a daughter almost that age ... almost. _He chuckled to himself and rolled over on his back for his own morning stretch. _My daughter would probably be just like Amy,_ he thought. _Just like her old man._

The phone rang. _Shit, probably Illya wondering when I'll be ready for breakfast, _he thought, picking up the receiver.

"Napoleon," the Russian voice said, "I'm ready when you are."

"I'll meet you in the lobby," Napoleon said, making no attempt to keep the irritation from his voice.

"Tell Amy to get a move on," Illya said, chuckling as he rang off.

_Amy's right, _Napoleon thought_, rolling out of bed. He is a cold fish._

* * *

An alarm screeched and Napoleon was instantly awake. His hand reached for his gun. The one that wasn't there.

Nurse Sindy hurried into the room, turning on the lamp over Illya's bed. "Mr. Solo, I'm going to have to ask you to leave," she said, .turning Illya onto his back and checking the IV pump. "Now," she said sharply.

Napoleon looked at Illya. "He's awfully pale," he observed. "What's happening to him?"

"Out, Mr. Solo. I won't tell you again," she said.

He met Charlie at the door. "Out, Solo," she said pushing past him.

Napoleon waited in the hall trying to peek through the blinds on the door. Both women worked in silence, raising the bed and opening Illya's pajamas. Nurse Sindy added something to the IV line and Charlie listened to his chest.

Two young men pushed Napoleon out of the way and entered Illya's room. Charlie spoke to them and then came to the door.

"Napoleon, you have got to get out of the way," she said, brushing past him.

"What the fuck is going on?" he shouted, following her down the hall.

"I think he's thrown a thrombosis -- a clot -- to the lung. I'm going to remove it," she said, stopping at the staff desk. "Maise," she said, "Page Dr. Pick and Dr. Shea and have them meet me in OR 2."

Napoleon was right behind her. He grabbed her arm and spun her around. "I asked you, what's happening?" his voice strained and furious.

"Get the fuck out of my way, Solo. If you expect to have a partner get out of my way," she said, pulling away from him and running down the hall.

His communicator beeped. "Solo here," he answered.

"You sound a bit distracted, Mr. Solo," Mr. Waverly said. "My office, now."

"Sir, Charlie is taking Illya back to surgery," he said, trying to mask the nervous waiver in his voice, "I'd rather stay here."

"Mr. Solo, you have no work there, unless you've become a cardio-thoracic surgeon recently. My office, now. Waverly out." Napoleon cursed under his breath.

The door of Illya's room slammed open and the two large young men rushed his bed down the hall followed by Nurse Cindy.

Napoleon stepped in front of her, "Sindy, is he going to make it?" his voice was choked with pain and tears stung his eyes.

"I don't know, Napoleon," she said running toward the OR.

* * *

Emerson looked at Mr. Waverly who was now on the phone with Charlie. "Dr. Charles, report," he barked.

"Not much time, sir," she said, "I believe that Illya, Mr. Kuryakin, has developed a thrombosis in his lung. He's being prepped for surgery now. I'll send word as soon as I know something more substantial." The line went dead.

"Alexander," Emie said, leaning forward, "this is not a good time. Napoleon is deeply worried about his partner. I heard your conversation. He's not in any mood to see me – or you – and that's understandable. I'll be in the commissary." She walked toward the door.

"Emie, stay!" Mr. Waverly ordered.

Emie stopped. Turning to face her friend and colleague she said, "You will not speak to me in that tone. You will not treat me with such disrespect."

Waverly made no attempt to keep the frustration from his face or his voice. "Emerson, my apologies. Please stay."

"Alexander, Napoleon has made good progress. Now he needs to deal with his misplaced sense of responsibility for what happened. He feels guilty. He feels that he failed his partner.

"He's just as fragile as his partner. The difference is that we can surgically address Illya's condition. Napoleon's life is in no less jeopardy. Don't fuck this up"

Napoleon burst in to the office. "What the fuck is so goddamned important?" he shouted, storming toward Mr. Waverly.

Emie reached for Napoleon's clinched fist. "Napoleon," her voice as smoky as the first time he heard it. She moved into his line of sight.

"Napoleon, you do need to be with Illya, but he won't be out of surgery for a while. Come with me, I'll wait with you," she said, bringing his arm to his side and weaving her fingers into his fist.

Mr. Waverly disappeared into his study.

Napoleon's heart was still pounding when Emie led him to an overstuffed leather chair in her suite. She went to the small kitchen and returned with a tray laden with a tea service. She brewed the tea and carefully poured two cups. She dropped two sugar cubes into a cup and handed it to Napoleon. "Drink this, slowly," she said.

"This must be your solution to every situation," Napoleon spat the words at Emie.

"Drink the tea, Napoleon," she said, her voice an odd mix of concern and frustration. "Tell me what happened."

"Oh no. I'm not starting this shit again," he said slamming the cup down. The steaming contents splashed across his hand burning the raw cut. "Son of a bitch," he yelled, grabbing his hand.

Emie inspected the damage, a blister already forming across the length of the cut. "This is where you cut yourself, isn't it?" she asked "I don't remember, how did you cut yourself?"

"I didn't tell you," he said, pulling away from her grasp.

"Napoleon, stop being childish," she said, reaching for his hand, "let me take care of this for you. It's either me or medical."

She cleaned the wound with a betadine sponge and applied a 4 x 4 gauze sponge to the blistering skin noting that the wound beneath was beginning to open under the pressure of the blister. She carefully wrapped the gauze in a figure 8 around his palm, thumb, and wrist. "There," she said, taping the end of the gauze, "that should hold it."

Emie looked into Napoleon's face. _Such pain_, she thought, cleaning up the counter, _no Emie, such fear_.

Napoleon walked to the windows and she followed him. "Emie," he said, his voice choked, "I've been shot. I've been beaten. I've been injected with mind-altering drugs. I've been poisoned." He turned to face her, tears streaming down his face.

"I thought that I'd made progress -- having you pick at me -- stripping naked every private thought or fear for you to ogle. And here I am, still a train wreck. I spend a few hours with Illya and I'm as trashed as ever. Jesus, what the fuck do I do now?"

* * *

Napoleon was surprised to find himself in her bed, wearing his own silk pajamas. _How the hell did she do this_, he wondered.

He could hear voices from the sitting room. He recognized Mr. Waverly's voice and Emie's. They were speaking in low tones, but there was an edge to the conversation.

Napoleon pushed himself up in bed and stifled a cry when his wounded head and hand protested. _Shit, those fuckers hurt,_ he said to himself.

He climbed out of bed and found his clothing neatly draped over a side chair. _Mother Superior indeed!_ he thought, silently dressing. He crept toward the bedroom door trying to hear what was being said.

"Alexander," Emie voice was stern, "if you expect to have Mr. Solo back in the field you've got to stop pushing him."

"Emie," Mr. Waverly shot back, "he's a highly trained agent. This is not the first time he's lived through this sort of trauma and stress."

"No, Alexander, you are totally wrong headed about this," Emie said, her voice hard and clipped, "I can't understand why you won't understand that Mr. Solo has never experience this level of trauma before. Maybe I need some sessions with you!"

"Emie," Mr. Waverly said, his voice softening, "I don't have the time -- UNCLE doesn't have the time -- to coddle him through this."

"You can't afford not to invest the time," she replied. "If you don't back off this and let me do my job, you'll have to find yourself another top agent." She paused, "Depending on the outcome of Mr. Kuryakin's surgery you might just have to find yourself two top agents." The door closed with a thud.

"Thank you, Emie," Napoleon said, walking toward her.

"Don't thank me yet," she said, sadness draped her voice like a shroud. "I'm not sure I've convinced Alexander that I know what I'm doing. I'm not sure that he believes that Illya -- and you -- will make it through."

The telephone rang, causing both her and Napoleon to involuntarily jump.

"Emerson," she said, her voice calm and soft. She listened and a moment later she said, "Yes, Dr. Charles, we're on our way,"

* * *

Charlie met them at the elevator. "Napoleon, let me brief you before you see him," she said, touching his arm. "Jesus, you're gone for a couple of hours and you come back with a bandage!"

"You might want to take a look at that later," Emie said, smiling at the doctor.

"Okay, here's what happened," she said, leading them toward Illya's room. "Illya did throw a thrombosis, a big one. We managed to localize it and remove it. He's on a respirator and he's got another chest tube. Depending on how he does over the next 24 hours, I plan on removing both tomorrow."

Napoleon stood at the door to Illya's room. He could hear the whoosh of the respirator and the slow beep of the heart monitor. "You can go in and see him, Napoleon," Charlie said, stepping in front of him, "don't stay too long, though."

Charlie shot a worried glance at Emie and squeezed Napoleon's arm. She opened the door and gave him a push. "Go on, he won't bite," she smiled.

The light above Illya's bed cast a halo around his blond hair. Dark circles pooled beneath his closed eyes.

_Jesus, _Napoleon to himself. He reached for Illya's hand, thinking about how many times Illya had used that hand to haul his ass out of trouble.

"Illya," Napoleon whispered, "I'm here and I'm not leaving until you wake up. I'm not leaving you." He pulled his chair close and rested his head on bedside. _I'm not leaving you,_ he repeated to himself.

* * *

"Dr. Charles, do you have a minute?" Emie asked. "I believe that we need to talk."

"Please, call me Charlie," she said, flashing a very tired smile.

"I know you're exhausted, but would you join me in my suite?" Emie said, calling the elevator. "I need your medical opinion and your expertise."

"Let me grab a shower and I'll join you shortly," Charlie said, pulling off her white lab coat.

"And call me Emie, I only answer to Rev. Cates when I'm in trouble," she said as the elevator doors closed.

The tea was brewed and the kitchen had just delivered sandwiches when Charlie knocked. "Let yourself in," Emie called from the kitchen.

"Jeeze," Charlie said, taking in the suite, "I had no idea how the other half lived!"

"I appreciate your willingness to talk with me," Emie said, inviting Charlie to the table. "Forgive me, but I must insist that our conversation be held in confidence."

"Of course," Charlie said, choosing a club sandwich and taking a big bite. "Sorry, lunch was a long time ago!"

Emie smiled, and Charlie realized how tired she looked. "Napoleon has been in St. Louis these last three days. Mr. Waverly was concerned because he was unable to clearly recall the events that led to Mr. Kuryakin being shot and the St. Louis field agent being killed," Emie said, watching the young doctor eat.

"I've read your reports," Charlie said, "That was grueling stuff. Napoleon's got a medical file six inches thick" she measured with her index and thumb. "He's been through just about everything at least once. That's why I was so surprised when this happened."

"This latest crisis with Mr. Kuryakin may have cost us some of the ground we gained," Emie said. "My concerns have multiplied to include Mr. Waverly. He doesn't seem to grasp the severity of Napoleon's illness. That's why I asked to meet with you."

"The Old Man's a tough one," Charlie said, pushing away from the table. "Looks like I've pretty well decimated your dinner. Thank you. I needed this."

"Join me," Emie said, moving toward the leather sofa and overstuffed chairs. "I'm a fan of chamomile tea. It calms the spirit."

Charlie settled into the corner of the sofa, taking a mug of tea from Emie. "I'm fortunate to be able to pull rank on Waverly," Charlie said, "I'm the chief medical officer and what I say goes. He's tried to push me into returning agents to the field before I think they're ready. I just pull out my communicator and call the Board. Waverly knows who will win that battle."

Emie smiled at this intelligent powerful young woman. "Alexander is fortunate to have you on his team. Napoleon and Illya are blessed, too."

"I'm thinking that Napoleon is more resilient than you realize," Charlie said. "He's tough, inside and out. I think seeing Illya shot by another UNCLE agent -- in an ambush -- just tripped some alarms for him. Don't write him off just yet."

"I don't intend to," Emie said, refilling Charlie's mug. "That's why I need your help. I'm asking you to place Napoleon on medical leave until we can work through this. I don't believe he needs more 'couch time' as he calls it. I do think that some medication, especially to assist him with sleep, would be helpful."

"No problem," Charlie said, glancing at her watch. "Sorry, Reverend ... Emie ... I need to get back to the floor. Napoleon had a complete physical this morning and I haven't written my report for Waverly. I'll take care of it."

* * *

Charlie stopped at the staff desk to review Illya's chart. _Good_, she read, _his vitals are strong. Meds are on board. He's resting comfortably. Finally, some decent progress._

She slipped into the room and found Napoleon sitting at Illya's bedside. "I thought I told you not to stay too long," she said, resting her hand on his shoulder.

"I promised him that I wouldn't leave until he woke up," Napoleon said, his voice tired and strained. He looked up into her face, "Let me stay, Charlie, I won't be any trouble."

Charlie rolled her eyes. "Okay," she said, "you can stay until he wakes. But, and hear me on this, Napoleon, if there's a problem you have to leave."

Napoleon stirred in his chair waking slowly. _Jesus, I've got to tell the Old Man that he needs to pop for more comfortable chairs,_ he thought. _Shit, I'm not even sure that I'm still an agent. Fuck it. I don't care._

He stood up and stretched, walking toward the windows. The sun was just coming up and he glanced at his watch. 4:00_ a.m. No wonder I'm trashed,_ he thought, turning to check on Illya.

_I can't believe that the Old Man thought this skinny Russian was fit for field work, _Napoleon said to himself_. Jesus, look at him -- he's too little, no muscle mass -- he's all brain. Dr. Kuryakin, theoretical physics, twelve languages, plays chess in his sleep. Some field agent._

He reached for Illya's hand. _If I can touch him, then he's going to come through this,_ he thought. _Maybe you should try for something more rational, Solo. How about, 'If I think happy thoughts then everything's fine'. I am a nut case._

The door opened slowly and Emie came in. "I brought you a snack," she said, offering a plate of sandwiches. "It takes a lot of energy to wait."

Napoleon gladly took the gift. "I guess I am a little hungry," he said, smiling at her.

"Why don't I stay with Illya, Napoleon, while you catch a nap," she said, knowing the answer before it came.

"No, Emie," he said, between bites, "I promised Illya that I'd be here when he woke up."

"Then make yourself comfortable," Emie said. "Charlie's ordered a cot for you, please use it."

He nodded and she departed.

* * *

Emie stepped into the steaming shower. _Maybe I should become a field agent, _she chuckled to herself relishing in the pounding of the water on her tense muscles. _It can't be any more demanding than this!_

She dried off and pulled on her pajamas. Fluffing the pillows she became aware of Napoleon's scent as she slipped between the sheets.

_You know, Emerson, _she said to herself. _You are in the God business and you haven't been in conversation lately. God, _she whispered_, Illya needs your healing touch. And, give me the right words to say to help Napoleon through this dark valley. Remind me that silence is sometimes the right path, too. You know the way._ She closed her eyes and was immediately asleep.

The phone rang and she waited for someone to answer. _Wake up, Emerson. Answer the phone!_ She rolled over, glancing at the bedside clock. _4:00 a.m. Never good news._

"Emerson," she said, sleep making her voice even more smoky than usual.

"He's awake," Napoleon said, sounding excited, tired, and scared.

"On my way," she said, throwing off the bed clothes.

Illya's door was open and Charlie was at his bedside. He seemed agitated, gesturing toward the breathing tube.

"Sorry, Illya. I can't take the tube out until later to day," she said. "You don't want me to take it out now and have to put it back in later, do you?"

Illya frowned and motioned for paper and pen. "OUT NOW!", he scribbled, making a face at Charlie.

"Yep, your making progress," she laughed, "that bad ass Russian attitude is back! Later today, Illya." She produced a syringe from her pocket and pushed the contents into his IV. "This will make you more comfortable."

Illya drifted off to sleep a frown still creasing his brow.

Emie stood at his bedside waiting until he was still and relaxed. She took his hand and closed her eyes. She was aware of Napoleon standing at the foot of the bed.

"Praying, Emie?" he asked, arching an eyebrow.

"On a mission from God," she said softly, turning to face her friend. "A little conversation with God never hurts. I think it's time for you to find a real bed and get some sleep."

"I'm fine," he said, returning his gaze to Illya's placid face.

"You kept your promise," she said, releasing Illya's hand, "you didn't leave him. You were here when he woke up. Go to bed or I'll have Charlie write orders and admit you to the floor."

"Jesus, you're a pushy broad," he said, forcing a weak grin.

"You have no idea," she said, taking his arm and walking him toward the door.

* * *

Napoleon was assigned a suite and found his clothing neatly hung in the closets, his toothbrush waiting in the bath. _Jesus_, he thought, _I work with some scary people._ He noticed a note on the bedside table. "Mr. Solo," it read, "We have taken the liberty of providing your personal effects to assist in making your stay comfortable. Please let us know if you desire anything else from your apartment."

"Where's the chocolate on my pillow," he said aloud, tossing the note in the trash basket.

He stripped his clothing and dropped them right where he stood. Naked, he wandered into the bath and turned on the shower. He noticed another note stuck to the mirror over the sink. _I've gained a pen-pal_, he thought, reaching for the note.

"Napoleon," the handwritten note said, "you will find a small bottle of pills in the drawer of the bedside table. Take one before you go to bed. See you later." It was signed, "Your friendly neighborhood pusher, Charlie."

_Shit, if I wasn't so pissed and tired, I might laugh, _he thought, pulling the bandage from his hand, stepping into the shower and letting the hot water stream over his body.

He found his favorite soap -- _They don't miss a trick _-- and soaped his body. _Illya's awake. He's pissed. He's going to survive this. Emie has stripped me naked from the inside out. There's nothing she hasn't forced me to reveal. What the fuck else does she -- does the Old Man -- want from me?_ He wondered, leaning his head against the damp tiles.

He turned off the shower, toweled off, and brushed his hair into some semblance of shape. He refused to critique his face that seemed to have developed some new wrinkles in the past few weeks.

_No pajamas_, he thought, climbing into bed. He noticed a carafe of water and remembered Charlie's magic pills. _If I don't take one she'll just order a blood test and find out. _He opened the drawer and popped one little peach pill.

The sheets felt wonderfully cool against his skin and he settled in taking a deep breath and slowly exhaling. The alarm clock read 5:30 a.m. and he reached for it, setting the alarm for nine. _I've been sleeping enough for a dozen agents and I can function on a lot less than four hours. Time to get back into a routine._

He turned off the lamp and rolled over. "No dreams, Napoleon," he said, giving himself a little pep talk, "not tonight."

* * *

Emie was standing at the side of his bed. "Napoleon," she said, "wake up. Alexander wants to see both of us."

Napoleon slowly opened his eyes. _Shit,_ he thought, _I must have missed the alarm._ He started to flip back the bed clothes when he remembered he was naked. "Could you please hand me my robe, Emie, and get out!"

She chuckled and tossed the bathrobe onto the bed. "I've got tea brewing, get the lead out!"

"Mr. Solo, you are officially on indefinite medical leave beginning immediately" Mr. Waverly said. "In my opinion, and the opinion of Dr. Charles and Reverend Cates, you are not fit for field duty."

Napoleon looked at Charlie, then at Emie, and then Mr. Waverly. "You have my resignation," he said.

The door closed soundlessly behind him.

"Dr. Charles, Emie, I believe you have your assignments," Mr. Waverly said, clicking a button on his console. "Mr. James, you are to intercept Mr. Solo, take him into custody, and deliver him to the medical unit."

Emie and Charlie rode the elevator in silence for several minutes. "Charlie," Emie said, "I'm thinking I may be in over my head."

"That makes two of us," Charlie said, reaching for Emie's hand. "Listen, between the two of us we should be able to handle this. I have to check on Illya before we begin with Napoleon. I'll meet you in exam room 12."

The doors opened and they parted. _I'm glad she's in on this,_ Emie thought, _we'll need every skill we've got._

Charlie stopped at the staff desk and grabbed Illya's file. _Shit, weighs more than he does._ She reviewed his vitals, meds schedule, and nursing notes. _Time to pull that damned tube and get on with this._

Sindy, Illya's nurse, was reloading his IV when Charlie pushed the door open. "Hey, Sindy," Charlie said, "how's his breath sounds?"

"Good, equal and clear bilaterally," Sindy said.

"Okay, let's wake him up and remove the respirator tube. I'm thinking that we can pull the chest tube, too." Sindy handed Charlie a pair of latex gloves and mask.

"Illya, wake up," Charlie said, touching his shoulder. He stirred. "Come on Blue-eyes, time to pull that damned breathing tube. You know the drill."

Illya opened his eyes, took a deep breath, and Charlie pulled the breathing tube. _I can't believe that I've got that much trachea_, he thought, watching the tube exit his throat and trying to stifle a moan.

"Good," Charlie said. "Now let's get that chest tube out and you'll only have to deal with the IV." Illya grimaced at the thought of having the chest tube pulled.

Charlie smiled, "You're looking much better." Illya made a nasty face.

He took a breath, surprised at how good it felt to feel air enter his lungs free of restraint. "Charlie," he asked, his voice raw and raspy again, "where is Napoleon?"

"Listen, Blondie, don't worry. He's got a double date coming up quick," she said, checking the monitor wires, "two hot women."

Sindy returned with the suture tray and Charlie tossed her gloves in the trash. "Thanks, Sindy. Go take care of some sick people."

"Charlie," Illya whispered, "what is going on with Napoleon?"

"Jesus, you're a persistent little shit," she said, opening the tray and tugging on the sterile gloves. "He's a little rough around the edges, that's all. Needs a little R&R. You both do."

She snipped the sutures holding the chest tube in place, counted to three, and pulled the tube. Illya cried out. Charlie quickly injected the numbing agent, finished the three stitches, and bandaged the small wound. "Here's a shot of the good stuff," she said injecting the morphine into his IV.

He grabbed her hand. "Napoleon," he whispered.

"Soon," she replied, squeezing his hand.

* * *

Emie knocked softly on the door of exam room 12 and waited. She pushed the door open and found Napoleon sitting in a hard plastic chair. Agent James stood behind him.

"Thank you, Agent James. You may leave," Emie said.

"Sorry, Reverend Cates. I am not to leave until Mr. Waverly gives his permission," he said, a large purple bruise swelling above his right eye.

"You'll never make a field agent, James," Napoleon said, his voice calm but angry, "can't think out of the box."

The agent ignored Napoleon. Completely.

Charlie opened the door. "Hi, Napoleon. Fancy meeting you here," she said. She picked up the phone and dialed, "Napoleon is in the medical division." She handed the phone to Agent James who listened for a second and then hung up.

"Agent James, you are relieved of your charge," Charlie said, glancing at the rapidly growing bruise on his right cheek. See Dr. Harold on your way out and have that eye checked."

She turned to face Napoleon. "I know you're pissed. Well, too fucking bad. You either work through this or you're terminated," her face was flushed with anger. "We're trying to save you life."

"Napoleon," Emie said, searching his face, "between the two -- three of us -- we've got the skills to bring you to wholeness. Alexander could have finished this long ago. You know that. Don't waste this chance."

_Shit_, he thought, _the Old Man is one mean son of a bitch. He knows that I would rather suffer any torture rather than this. Tears stung his eyes._

"Okay," he said, "do your worst."

* * *

Illya lounged beneath the shade of cabana sipping an ice-cold vodka martini. _I could live this life,_ he thought, _until I get so bored I'm willing to face THRUSH again._

"Got any left?" asked Emie, settling onto the chaise lounge next to his.

"It's not every day that this Russian shares his vodka martini's, you know, Agent Cates," he said pouring the wonderful mix into her offered glass.

"Thanks for the promotion, but I'm not an agent -- yet."

"When does Napoleon arrive?" he asked, his voice still raspy from the breathing tube. He closed his eyes and stretched, at least until there was an uncomfortable tug in his chest.

"This afternoon," she said, adding "with Charlie!" She noticed his wince. "Chest bothering you?"

"A little," he said, turning to face his new found friend. "So, Agent Cates, how did you two manage to talk Mr. Waverly into this?" he asked, gesturing to the cabana, the beach and the ocean.

"Who could resist Charlie?" she chuckled. "Not to mention the fact that she wrote orders for an extended R&R for you two. Alexander decided to add the two of us to the mix."

"Thank you," Illya said, his blue eyes serious. "Thank you for this and for my partner."

"Who could resist?" she asked, sipping the best martini ever.

End (More to come ...)


End file.
